


Worth It

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: 1940s, Awkwardness, Crying, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hugs, Loneliness, Memories, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: Grief is an ache.1942Jerry Lewis is sixteen years old and alone in New York.
Relationships: Dean Martin & Jerry Lewis - Relationship, Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 25





	Worth It

Sometimes, when he lay awake in the middle of the night, Jerry thought about a lonely boy in a dark house. He thought about this boy, with legs too long for his body, and shirts and pants hanging off his bony frame, with his face pressed against a windowpane, misting it with ragged breath, smudging it with tears shed more quickly than he could wipe. He thought about a cold red light. He thought about the sudden mad dash for the phone, a sterile voice on the other end. _Expired_ , it said. _Does that mean she’s getting better?_

Sometimes, Jerry thought about the days that followed. He thought about covered mirrors, about guests received in quiet gratitude. He thought about how he wished he could have run and run and run, but he was good; he followed the rules. He thought about burying his face in a pillow and screaming, biting, thrashing. Then falling silent, curled up, crying steadily, endlessly, thinking how alone she must have been.

Sometimes, Jerry thought about how he didn’t cry so much after a while. He didn’t jerk awake from nightmares in a cold sweat and a hot, damp bed. He stopped waiting for his mom or dad to say sorry for leaving him there alone. That one took some time, but he did it. Like a good boy, he never raised it with them. Then, when he realised he’d gone a day not thinking of her, he’d wondered if that made him a bad person. But then he thought about how exhausted he was. He thought about her kind eyes, and how he’d rubbed her tired old feet. He thought about cotton in his hair and gentle hands on his face. And it was nicer, then, to think of her. To live with it.

Grief, he realised, isn’t what he thought it would be. It isn’t screaming and crying and bargaining with God to bring her back. No, grief is quiet. Grief is an ache. Sometimes it’s so dull and distant that you can hardly feel it anymore and those are good days. But sometimes it makes your arms and legs so heavy you think you might never walk again, might never get out of bed. It’s a quiet twinge in your chest as you think of her face, or touch the pendant that sits over your heart. But it’s a nice sort of ache. A memory.

Still. An ache’s an ache.

So it happened that Jerry woke one morning with that dull ache around his heart. _Ah_ , he thought. _It was today._ He stared at the ceiling for almost an hour, knowing he ought to move, to get up, to brush his teeth or shower – _something_. But instead he stared. He sighed a little, shifted on the mattress. He stroked the cool Magen David pendant resting on his skinny chest, buried slightly in the thatch of fur he was secretly quite proud of. He smiled then, and stretched every inch of his body to its limit. For a moment, it didn’t matter that he was alone in a big city, staying in a tiny, draughty hotel room with old sheets and creaking floorboards.

At last, he rolled out of bed. He yawned and cracked his neck. His bare feet froze on cold wood as he pulled on yesterday’s clothes and hurried out for a cold shower in the dingy communal bathroom. _One day_ , he thought, shivering under the stuttering faucet. _One day I won’t catch cold just tryna get clean._ The pipes moaned and whined and spat a sudden jet of boiling water directly into his face. Jerry shrieked and jumped back, almost slipping on the tiles. “The whole skin is burned off,” he muttered, warily approaching the shower head; it had gone back to its cold, weak attempt. “The eyeballs are burned, the nose is all blistered.” He chuckled to himself and turned off the water. Another moan, and Jerry braced for the onslaught. But it behaved itself and sat silently before him.

“That’s _right_ ,” he muttered, jabbing a finger at the pipes. “Hope ya learned _that_ lesson.”

Back in his room, once his hair had dried and with a blemished, cracked little mirror propped up on the nightstand, Jerry set about slicking his hair with pomade. He took a good, long time doing it too. He had no shows tonight, nowhere in particular to be, and after taking care of a few small things, he had all the time in the world to figure out what exactly he wanted to do with his one free day. So he took his time, combing and slicking, slicking and combing, using too much, maybe; his felt like someone had stuffed orange segments so far up his nose they were falling out his ears. He was almost giddy with it. Eventually, he had a pretty impressive pompadour, if he did say so himself, and picked up the mirror to admire it from other angles.

He thought about covered mirrors and felt the ache deepen.

Hastily, he stowed the mirror under his pillow and pulled on his coat. Cigarettes, lighter, handkerchief: he double-, triple-checked they were in their right places. Then he slipped a little fold of green bills into his inside pocket and went out into the hall. Last night, the elevator had whined and juddered much more than usual, so Jerry plumped for the stairwell. It reeked of smoke and piss and something else Jerry didn’t like to think about. He held his breath and clattered down three floors, through the lobby – pointedly looking away from the man who had been slumped in a chair in the corner since last night – and out on to the street.

There was a breeze picking up, but Jerry thought it was more bracing than cold, and set off puffing quite happily at a cigarette from a fresh pack. Noise swirled around him, ladies leaning out of windows and shouting at men below, who gesticulated and hurled insults; Jerry ducked his head and scurried by. On the corner, two women called to him, beckoning. Trash overflowed in cans, spilled into the street. Two ragged kids tore past on bare feet. Somewhere, their mother screeched. A delivery truck rumbled and belched smoke from the exhaust pipe. Everything stank. It bore down on Jerry and made his heart pound.

He loved it. He shouldn’t, maybe. He knew there were nicer places in New York – was headed that way now, in fact – but the tummel of these rundown blocks he passed through to reach them made him practically vibrate. The shouting, the rumble of engines, wind tugging at the hem of his coat: all of it swallowed him up. He liked lying in bed, when he jolted awake from a dream, and listening to distant shouts, cats yowling, trashcans crashing like cymbals in the street. The louder the better, anything to smother whatever his brain had to say. _It’s enough to make you cry, ain’t it?_ he thought now.

Instead of tears, the ache deepened again.

He dropped the cigarette, lit another as he turned into the next block. It was instantly cleaner, quieter. Jerry didn’t quite understand how New York managed to house such extremes side-by-side, but he didn’t think too hard on it. Probably the answer wasn’t so nice. After stopping in at a deli for a nosh, he found himself drawn to a cute little store tucked away on a street corner and browsed awhile the shelves overflowing with tchotchkes. It was cosy and warm, and he thought he could easily lose an hour here; if he had more than thirty bucks in his pocket, he might even get in a good shopping spree. Even those bills, tucked safely away, cried out to be spent. And why not? It might make him feel better, until he realised what he’d done.

 _Careful, Joseph. You gotta pay for your room still, plus dinner tonight, and on top of that you still ain’t bought new needles after you snapped the last one getting punchy._ He huffed a laugh, remembered bitterly the overzealous thump he’d fetched his phonograph, just to get Sinatra’s voice to skip a little on ‘Night and Day’. That part worked out great, but his needle snapped and flew clean out the hotel window. He’d stared in horror, practically fallen three floors to the street trying to see where it landed. Then he’d dissolved into mad giggles, hiding his face in the comforter. _Well_ , he’d thought. _Guess they can't complain about the noise no more._

He shook his head, trying not to giggle now, and spotted something tucked away on one of the shelves. Jerry bit his lip and gently reached between the fancier things to fish it out. It was a small, simple candle. He rubbed his thumb against its glass holder and smiled. It was totally plain, nondescript, with a short black wick on top. Less than a buck! He happily forked over one green bill and felt very important telling the lady at the counter to keep the change. She didn’t look so impressed, and sure, maybe fifty cents wasn’t much, but her raised eyebrow made him feel a little silly, and he quickly escaped with his purchase safely wrapped and tucked away in his pocket.

The ache had loosened a little, and he walked with something like a spring in his step. Quite without realising where he had been going, he found himself on 54th and Broadway. _Back_ on 54th and Broadway. He paused there, a little lightheaded. _This is very silly_ , he told himself. Silly or not, he couldn’t help the little tremble in his limbs. Jerry wasn’t quite sure what it meant. But he remembered standing here not three days ago, reaching out to shake hands with just about the most handsome man he ever saw. Sonny didn’t know they’d already met – just briefly, just a tiny thing, just a joke over an egg salad sandwich – but neither of them let on. _Like a secret_ , Jerry thought now, and had to light another cigarette to take his mind off whatever _that_ meant.

He turned, the ache now dull and nearly nothing, and walked directly into Sonny. _Speak of the Dago_ , he almost said, but bit his tongue just in time.

“Kid, you’re miles away!” He patted Jerry’s arm, laughing. Sonny always seemed to be laughing. It was nice, and Jerry felt it was genuine. “How’s tricks?”

“I’m all right,” he said, and then added, “Sorry.”

“No harm.” Sonny thumped him lightly. “Hey, you busy?”

Jerry smoothed his hair, put an arm across his waist and shot out one hip. “Why, Mr King, in the middle of the day?”

Sonny laughed. “Don’t start, kid.” He slung an arm around him. “You got a show tonight?”

“Nope, not me,” he said. “Why?”

“Truthfully kid, I got nothin’ to do and nowhere to be. Spinnin’ wheels,” he added, not at all helpfully. “Keep a fella company? I got plans tonight if you wanna tag along, but nothin’ ’til then.”

Jerry wasn’t quite sure why Sonny wanted him to come, but he wasn’t about to ask. He liked Sonny. Sonny was a pal. And anyway, maybe if he hung around with Sonny today, he might run into Dean again.

“Whadaya smilin’ about?”

“Huh?” Jerry blinked at Sonny. “Smilin’?”

“Yeah, smilin’.” He shook his head. “You’re cracked, kid.” But he said it nicely enough that Jerry didn’t feel too bad. “Whadaya say? Got some sympathy for a lonely Guinea?” He offered his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Sure,” Jerry said, and then, carefully, “Who else is comin’ tonight?”

“Oh, anybody.” Sonny had let go of Jerry and now set off. Throwing caution to the wind, Jerry went skipping after him. He got a few strange looks, but it broke Sonny up, so Jerry kept right on doing it until they reached the Bryant. Sonny was looking up, grinning at something else now, and Jerry turned.

The ache deepened.

There, under the awning, dressed in a Harry Horseshit coat and bright red pimp shoes, black curly hair somehow perfectly tousled by the wind, and shielding his lighter with one huge hand, stood Dean Martin.

 _Wow._ Jerry knew that his mouth had dropped open, but it seemed the only sensible reaction.

Dean looked up, tucking his lighter back into his jacket. He spotted Sonny and then, eyebrows rising just a little, he saw Jerry, who collected himself enough to pick his jaw up off the ground.

“Ah, young Master Joseph-Jerome!” Dean grinned lazily at him. He was putting more than a bit of Crosby into his voice; Jerry hadn’t heard Dean sing yet, but thought secretly he had Der Bingle beat on every other front. “Good to see you again.”

Under the pressure of that easy, handsome smile, Jerry felt the ache around his heart grow tighter, colder, and suddenly he wanted to cry. Instead, when Dean reached him, Jerry seized one of his paws in both hands and pumped it enthusiastically, declaring in an Idiot voice “Gee, Mr Martin, it sure is nice to see you again, yes sir, boy, just peachy-keen and _sterling_.”

Dean chuckled and indulged this seizure of his hand for a few more seconds before extricating himself. “You workin’?” he asked.

Jerry tried to ignore the excitable voice in the back of his head. _That’s what_ you _said! He remembered what you_ said _!_ He shook his head. “I got the night off. Figured I’d wander around a little.”

“Wandered right into me,” Sonny said.

“You have my condolences,” Dean said gravely to Jerry, who giggled as Sonny pretended to hit Dean in the face.

“So?” Sonny asked. Jerry caught the suggestive tone in his voice and felt a little green.

“Hm?” Dean looked at him with a great pantomime of ignorance. Jerry laughed again, and Dean tipped him a wink. He looked away before he could see whatever Jerry’s face was doing after _that_. “ _So_ , what?”

“Ah, c’mon, Dino.” Sonny pouted. “You go off with a girl like _that_ , and you expect me to say _nothing_?”

Dean sighed as though in great pain. Then, winking at Jerry again (this time Jerry thought it was a miracle he didn’t go flying off into space), Dean said, “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell.”

“I ain’t asking a gentleman.” It was Sonny's turn to avoid a punch in the mouth.

Dean chuckled. Jerry was getting to really like that chuckle.

“Drop it, Sonny, will ya?” He turned to Jerry, jabbed a thumb at Sonny. “He drinks, this fella.”

Jerry cackled and clapped hands over his mouth. _What’s_ wrong _with you?_

“So, kid,” Dean went on. “Sonny been recruiting you?”

“Huh?”

He chuckled again and said, “For tonight.”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah, that’s right. Y-you comin’, too?” He hoped he didn’t sound too eager.

“So he tells me.” Something in his voice made Jerry think that Dean really didn’t want to be going out tonight. He wondered why Dean didn’t just tell Sonny that. But Dean was smiling. “At least I’ll have my new pal for company.”

Jerry felt a twinge in his chest. “O-oh. Who’s your new pal?”

Sonny’s laughter exploded out of him, while Dean shook his head, still smiling, and tried to shove the other Italian away.

“Oh!” Jerry felt like he might drop dead from embarrassment. “Oh, right.” He really, really hoped he wasn’t blushing. _What is the matter with you, Joseph?_ Jerry thought it might have had something to do with how handsome Dean was. He wondered if Sonny had been the same around him when they’d first met. It was true, Jerry thought, that some men who were so irresistible to women sort of overflowed with that magnetism, and maybe it attracted fellas too. Not attracted _that_ way, but maybe guys like Sonny ( _And me_ , Jerry thought) hoped that by hanging around Dean, some of that charisma might rub off on them. Maybe once some of the initial awe that meeting Dean had instilled in Jerry wore off, he’d be able to relax a little.

 _Well, if it’s gonna wear off, it better wear off soon, boy_ , Jerry thought as he and Dean and Sonny set off together. He kept glancing at Dean’s profile. It really was unfair how perfectly sculpted he was, like a statue, but flesh and blood, real, warm, and with perfect curly hair just to really twist the knife.

_Please wear off soon._

The ache was back, heavier, darker. He was listening to the others without really hearing them, wanting to interject with some killer line but unable to focus. He thought if he could break Dean up – just really, sincerely make him laugh – it would make this day infinitely better. It might even go some way towards dispelling this whatever-it-was Jerry was feeling about him. But he couldn’t concentrate, could hardly think, and he kept feeling the candle in his pocket, pressed against his hip. He wanted suddenly to tell Sonny he’d changed his mind, or that he’d forgotten something, something he had to do, say sorry to Dean, and turn tail and run, run all the way back to Newark.

He thought about the other day, how they’d ended up at the Bryant, Jerry listening intently to all of Dean’s stories, staring at those huge hands that had carried steel and won fights in the ring, but also somehow adapted to cutting cards. He remembered how Sonny had goaded Dean one too many times, how they’d ended up throwing pillows at each other, bellowing insults in Italian. He remembered how he’d hugged himself, creased with laughter, but secretly pinching his arms, because if it _had_ been a dream, he’d wanted desperately to wake up before he got too comfortable, to know for sure, because it seemed too much, too good to be real, and _Please, God, I don’t know what I did wrong, but I don’t deserve such a nice thing to be a dream._ And how all these wonderful feelings bubbled up, fizzed in his throat, not quite ready to be words yet or even coherent thoughts, but beautiful, excellent, marvellous feelings. And how Dean had turned to him and smiled.

_Oh, help._

The ache in his chest was making it hard to breathe. It had never been this bad before, not ever. It hadn’t been all that long, he supposed, just a few years since it happened, and maybe being alone here had made it worse this time. _But I’m_ not _alone_ , he thought, looking over again at Dean. And Sonny, too. They were laughing together. Jerry’s heart pounded, too hard, too quick, and then settled. Not quite alone, then. But maybe being so alone and suddenly having a reason not to be – suddenly wanting desperately not to be – was making the whole thing so much harder.

But why did it have to be hard? He looked at Dean again. Here was this nice man, joking with him, talking with him, walking with him, so easy, so natural, like he hung around with skinny Jewish kids from Newark every day. Here he was, with no idea of all this nonsense in Jerry’s head. Now was that fair? Was it fair for Jerry to be overflowing with this huge thing when his new friend was blissfully ignorant? _Guarantee he’s not having palpitations over_ you _, ya schmuck._ No, Dean had other people, other pals, girls and shows, a wife and kid to think about; no room for Jerry Lewis to live rent-free in his head.

_But is it so bad if he lives that way in mine?_

He glanced over again. He thought about that lonely boy in a dark house. He thought how much better it would have been to have had another person, just one other person, with him there, and in the days that followed. If he’d had an older brother, then maybe—

 _Oh._ Jerry looked at Dean again. _Is_ that _what this is?_

The ache loosened. Just a tiny bit, but still. It loosened. He thought about bouncing from aunt to aunt. He thought about kids and teachers sneering insults. He thought about a dressing room, a flight of stairs, and the bad things that happened there. And he imagined – a silly, childish fantasy – Dean there with him. He wondered if nine years was too big a gap, if maybe older brothers didn’t like kid brothers hanging around so much. But he thought maybe that didn’t matter. He thought maybe that sometimes just being a brother was enough to forget how many years there were between two people. Even if he hadn’t wanted Jerry around all the time (and who did?), he thought an older brother would have been there when it mattered.

He wished Dean could have been there when it mattered.

 _Twice_ , Jerry thought, with a little shake of his head. _You met him twice before now and you’re already thinking like—_

Somebody cried out. Something seized Jerry’s arm. He went stumbling backwards. A horn blared, and Jerry clapped hands over his ears. His heart hammered and clanged against his ribs, and for one horrible moment he thought he was going to faint. Then he felt soft pressure on his wrists, the hands being taken away. He blinked, and Dean’s face swam into view.

“Still with us?” He was smiling.

Jerry couldn’t speak. He stared at Dean’s face, so close to his, at the cigarette hanging from his mouth, at his eyes. They sparkled, but Jerry could swear they looked a little startled, too. He realised that Dean was keeping gentle hold of his wrists.

“Thought we lost you for a minute,” came Sonny’s voice, and he was laughing. “Gotta look where you’re goin’, kid!”

“Oh,” Jerry managed and nodded frantically. “Yeah, right. Sorry. What—”

“Kid’s miles away!” Sonny was still laughing, and Jerry still liked hearing that, still thought it was a nice sort of noise.

“Yeah,” Jerry said and laughed a little shakily. “Just daydreaming, I guess.”

“Maybe don’t do it by a busy street.” Dean smiled at him and finally let go. Jerry watched him crush the cigarette under this heel and stick another between his lips. He lit it, took a slow drag to get it started, and then held it out to Jerry. “Nerves,” he said.

“Oh.” He nodded again. “Oh, right. Th-thanks.” He took it and smoked. He didn’t think about how casually Dean had handed him something that had only seconds before been in his own mouth. The ache was a little warmer now, a little easier to bear. Before he could stop himself, the Idiot piped up: “Mr Martin, you’re my hero!”

Dean chuckled. Jerry studied how he inclined his head, how he showed his top row of teeth, how his eyes crinkled. It wasn’t a big laugh, he wasn’t really broken up, but Jerry figured it was a good start.

 _I bet I could make him laugh doing my act_ , he thought, and then clapped a hand to his forehead. “Shit!” he cried. A lady passing by glared at him, then caught Dean’s eye and softened. He titled his head, a silent apology, and off she went. 

“What now?” Sonny asked.

“Needles!” Jerry moaned. “I gotta buy needles! That’s one of the things I gotta do today. Shit, where do I get ’em? Where’s the nearest place? I gotta—”

“Hey, kid, slow down.” Dean held up his hands, calming. “We’ll get some needles.”

“Huh? Oh, but you don’t hafta come! I’ll see you tonight, and then—”

“Kid.” Sonny put an arm around him. “Remember how I told you I ain’t got shit to do today?” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll even buy ’em for you, my treat.”

“Oh no, I—”

“We’ll get needles, and then we’ll get food. Something for you and something for Dino – for saving your life.” Sonny winked at Dean, who sighed and shook his head.

“Might as well say yes, kid,” he said. “He won’t shut up otherwise.”

Sonny sighed. “I think the phrase you’re lookin’ for, Dino, is _Thank you_. And don’t mention it.” He put a hand over his heart, solemn. “Least I can do for the hero of the hour.”

“Ought I to pay?” Jerry asked. “I’m the one he saved.”

“Christ, kid, don’t encourage him!” Dean put his head in his hands. “Such a headache you give me.” He sighed. “C’mon, before Sonny hires a parade.”

It turned out that Sonny knew a place nearby (“Sonny knows lots of places,” Dean whispered to Jerry, “but most of ’em you shouldn’t visit.”), and within minutes Jerry had a tin of new needles rattling in his pocket. Sonny had eventually given up trying to pay, and Jerry thought it might have had something to do with the fact that after a while of insisting that it was fine, Sonny, really, I _want_ to pay, he felt like he might start crying out of frustration. Still, the needles had cheered him up a little, and now they sat together in a café with plates of pie and cake in front of them. Jerry set upon a slice of gooey chocolate fudge cake without even asking if his pals had a preference. It didn’t seem to matter; Sonny happily worked his way through two slices of cherry pie, while Dean had plumped for something lemony.

They were sitting in a booth with a checked tablecloth and tall leather seats. Jerry sat facing his pals and, if he leant out a little, had a clear view of the door and windows and the people on the other side. At the counter were a few people drinking coffee, men with their hats beside their saucers, heads buried in newspapers. The buzz of conversation, the jingling cash register, and inconsistent clink of cutlery on porcelain had a more than pleasant effect on Jerry, and he worked his way happily through three slices of cake and a giant vanilla malted. Neither of his pals had passed unkind judgement on his choice of beverage, and he felt terribly pleased (and more than a little relieved) about that. After a while, Sonny got up and, without a word of explanation, joined the fellas sitting in the booth two down from theirs.

“Sonny knows too many people.” Dean leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. Jerry thought he looked exhausted. He hadn’t noticed it before, and wondered if the late night he’d obviously had, coupled with traipsing round New York today, and the thought of going out again tonight had just hit him. But looking at him closely, Jerry wondered if Dean had just been hiding it until now. His eyes had drifted closed; his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. _He fell asleep!_ Jerry thought, and couldn’t understand why it delighted him so much. He finished the milkshake as quietly as he could, and then sat on his hands, watching his new friend. He wondered if he ought to say something, wake him up, make a joke – or just sit nice and quiet, like a good boy, and wait.

But Dean was sitting up again. With a sigh, he pulled a slice of key lime pie closer to him. “Mind?” he asked, and Jerry shook his head. Dean took his fork and used the edge to cut a small piece. Then he stuck the fork in the larger, much-too-big-for-his-mouth piece and shoved it into his face.

Jerry practically exploded. He covered his mouth, legs bouncing madly. He squirmed and giggled and tried to speak, but every time he looked at the chunks of pastry, filling and meringue clinging to his nose and plopping quietly to the tablecloth, he thought he would die for laughing so hard. Through tears, he saw Dean wipe the pie casually from his nose, tongue catching flecks from the corners of his mouth. He smacked his lips, dropped the napkin on the table, and looked at Jerry with a curious expression, head tilted like a dog.

Sonny had reappeared. “Jesus, kid, what happened?”

Dean shrugged, the picture of innocence. “Finally lost it,” he said, and winked at Jerry.

“Yeah.” He tried to choke down the laughs. “Just cracking finally,” he said. “Don’t m-mind me.”

Dean had calmly popped the small remaining piece of pie into his mouth and chewed it, watching Jerry with a serene smile on his face. He had to look away then, still shaking.

 _No fair!_ he thought, delirious. _He broke me up first, no fair!_ God, but he was funny. He was so, so funny. And that really wasn’t fair, was it? Looking like that, being so nice, and hilarious on top of it. _Some guys really do have it easy_ , he thought, _and still I haven’t heard him sing! That’s four things he has on me._ Strangely, though, Jerry wasn’t mad about it. Something in the way Dean held himself, the way he was so casual, so easy; it was difficult to be angry at him. In fact, it seemed only natural that he would have so much where someone like Jerry had so little.

 _He’s not arrogant_ , he thought, finally calming down save a couple of gulping chuckles. He looked at Dean, who had lit a fresh cigarette. _He's cool and handsome, but he doesn't care, maybe. He wants to be silly sometimes._ And Sonny had been talking to somebody else. In all the world, Jerry Lewis was the only one who saw the handsomest man in New York shove a slice of key lime pie into his face. _Another secret_ , he thought, and smiled to himself. How many was that now? It didn’t matter; he figured he was the only one keeping track.

The ache was barely troubling him now, and he grinned at Dean, who grinned right back.

“Crazy,” Sonny said, shaking his head. “Both of you, crazy.” He sat back down and explained to Jerry that everybody would be meeting up at his and Dean’s apartment this evening. “You wanna stick around with us 'til then or meet there later?”

“Oh.” Jerry looked from Sonny to Dean and back again. “Well, what’re you doin’ ’til then?”

“Sleeping,” Dean said.

Sonny rolled his eyes. “Old man Crocetti needs to take a nap, so—” He cried out, twisting away from Dean’s hand. “All right, all right.” He said something in Italian, and made a gesture with his hand that Jerry thought looked vaguely obscene. Then he went on: “We’ll kill time at the apartment maybe. I gotta do a couple things before tonight, but you can stay there with Sleepy.”

Dean snorted. “What’s that make you – Dopey?”

“Yeah – the kid can be Bashful.”

“Hey!” Jerry pouted. “Lemme be Snow White, her colouring’s good for me.” He batted his eyelashes, and Sonny collapsed on to the table, whooping with laughter.

Dean shook his head. “I think you broke him, kid.”

Jerry beamed. “I’m only kiddin’, anyhow,” he said. “Yellow and blue washes me out.”

“That right?” Dean was chuckling. “I won’t ask how you know that.” He glanced around then and, tapping Sonny on the shoulder, muttered, “Think we oughta get outta here, we’re not makin’ any friends.”

Sure enough, Jerry saw the fella behind the counter glaring at them; he looked about ready to vault over and haul them out the door. He smiled sheepishly, and helped Dean pull Sonny back out on to the street.

On the walk to the apartment, Jerry felt a thrill of excitement. It was one thing spending most of the evening in his agent’s hotel room back at the Bryant, but another thing entirely to spend the rest of the day at his apartment. He asked Dean, trying to sound casual, how much time he spent there.

“Oh, most nights, but not always together. We come and go. I was at Lou’s last night, he’s outta town.”

“The hotel room’s nicer,” Sonny added. “Don’t wanna bring girls back here, _ehi_ , Dino?”

“You hear anything?” he asked Jerry, who giggled and found he had to look away.

Sonny hadn’t been kidding; the apartment was far from cosy – though Jerry didn’t mention that his own hotel room looked even worse – and he could understand not wanting to bring a girl back here. Not that Jerry ever had reason to bring a girl back anywhere, but a boy could dream. It was a smallish, cold affair, with a stained kitchen counter and sink on one side of the window, and a ratty old couch on the other. The carpet was threadbare and soiled, and the ceiling peeled like dead skin. Dean took off his coat and disappeared through the door by the couch.

“Bedroom,” Sonny explained.

“Oh. He really wasn’t kiddin’ about sleepin’?”

“Dino _never_ kids about sleeping.” He threw out his arms. “So here we are. Our little slice of paradise.”

Jerry laughed. “Oh, it’s _fine_ ,” he said, in a Sophisticated voice. “I simply _adore_ what you’ve done with this.” He fingered a slit in the wallpaper.

“We ain’t much for entertaining,” Sonny said. He crossed the floor and switched on the boxy little heater. “Keep an eye on that for me,” he said. “It’s not to be trusted.”

“Sure." Jerry sat on the couch; his legs immediately thanked him as the heater blew warmth against his pants. He squinted at a scorch on the carpet and eyed the heater warily. “So whadaya do when you’re both around?”

“Sleep,” he said, sitting down at the table by the door. “Box.” He shrugged. “When we need the money.”

“People make bets?”

“Oh, sure. Buy tickets, make bets. We split the loot. You oughta come.”

Jerry considered this. He thought about Dean and Sonny surrounded by fellas, cheering them on, baying for blood. He thought about Dean, victorious. He thought about Dean, bruised and battered and bleeding. He thought he might hate that more than anything in the world.

“Mm.” Jerry twisted his hands in his lap. “Maybe.” He shuffled in his seat. “You, uh… You got a bathroom?”

“Through there,” he said, pointing at the bedroom door. He’d taken out a small, black notebook was scratching things out with a pencil. When Jerry didn’t move, he said, “It’s all right, kid, you won’t wake him.”

“O-oh. Right.” Jerry stood up. “Mind the heater,” he said with a nervous laugh and cautiously opened the bedroom door.

The ache deepened; Jerry froze.

Dean lay half-curled in the middle of the bed. One fist was tucked against his mouth, and he had the loveliest, most peaceful expression on his face. If he had snored, it might have gone a little way to help alleviate the manic thud of Jerry’s heart, but no. Of course not. He breathed low and slow. His hair was mussed a little. Crazily, Jerry could see himself slipping fingers into it. _That’d be a good way to break an arm_ , he thought, and scurried by into the bathroom.

Heading back, he paused again, looking at Dean. He’d forgotten to take off his shoes, and his tie hung loose, like he’d fallen asleep in the middle of undressing. It wasn’t as cold as the main room, so Jerry didn’t feel too sad that Dean had passed out on top of the comforter, but the curtains were open, and the sun wouldn’t be setting for a few hours yet. Jerry took a breath – it didn’t help settle him – and crept by the foot of the bed to the window. Gently, he twitched the curtains across, casting the room in a bluish-orange light. Satisfied, he let go – and one of the metal rings clanked on the rod.

 _Shit._ Maybe it would be all right. It wasn’t all that loud; Dean might sleep through. If he’d really been as tired as he looked at the café, and if he was as serious about sleeping as Sonny said, then maybe it would be all right. Maybe he wouldn't wake up and find out some kid he hardly knew came into his bedroom while he was sleeping. Taking another deep breath, Jerry turned.

Dean was looking at him. He’d rolled over, and was now propped up on one arm, a curious, pleasantly bemused expression on his face. So, shit. He was awake. But at least he didn’t look mad. Jerry cleared his throat and said, “Hi.”

“Hi.” He smiled. “Whadaya doin’?”

“Oh, well. See. Uh. You were sleepin’, see, and I-I thought maybe you forgot to close the curtains, you know? So I thought, well, maybe you’d want ’em closed – to help you sleep better. With the light and everything, and the birds fly past and make shadows, and noise too, you know? And well, I thought I might just, you know – oy.” He covered his face. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“I woke you up.” Jerry felt more than a little upset and had to take a moment before looking at Dean again. “I just came in to use the bathroom, and I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He pushed back to sit against the headboard. Then he glanced at the door and, pitching his voice a little louder, said, “Sonny not keeping you entertained?”

“Fuck you,” came Sonny’s voice. 

“So bad with guests,” Dean said. Jerry laughed, relieved. He felt awkward standing by the window but couldn’t figure out where to move. The door opened then, and Sonny stuck his head into the room.

“I gotta head out for an hour or so.”

“What’ll we do without ya?” Dean asked.

Sonny glared at him. “He give you any trouble, kid, you let me know. Crocetti here can’t be trusted.” And then, a glint in his eye, “Have him tell you about the girl from last night.” He shut the door just in time for a pillow to bounce off the wood. Jerry heard the front door shut, and just like that they were alone.

Dean was muttering in Italian, shoving the other pillow behind his back. Jerry went over to collect the thwarted missile and hugged it to his chest. He bit his lip and turned back to Dean. “I’ll sit in the living room so you can sleep.”

“What? Naw, I’m awake now.”

The ache in Jerry’s chest tightened. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“I know, kid. Drop it, will ya?”

Jerry dropped it. _Is this what having an older brother would have been like?_ he thought. _Making him mad and feeling like your heart might break?_ He sighed and put the pillow back on the bed. _Maybe it’s better I don’t have one. Maybe it wouldn’t be worth it._

Dean was looking at him. “You know, Jerry.”

“Mm?” _I don’t think he said my name before. Silly jokey names, or ‘kid’, not ‘Jerry’, ever._ “What is it?”

“You don’t have to come with us tonight.”

“Oh. Oh, I know.” He sat on the bed, almost without thinking about it. “I want to,” he said slowly. “I don’t have anything else to do, and…”

“And?”

Jerry looked at him. He didn’t _look_ mad, and that was good. That was pretty much fantastic. “Well, I… Sonny’s a pal, you know? It’s nice to be invited, I guess.” He picked the pillow up again and played with the frayed stitching. “I don’t get invited many places.” He said it easily enough; he wasn’t sad about it, like he might have been a year or so ago. It was just a fact of his life now, like the gap in his teeth, or the fading acne on his cheeks. People didn’t invite Jerry anymore. Not when they’d realised he wasn’t always the Idiot. With a little pang of anxiety, he wondered if Dean really didn’t give a shit about this, and looked up quickly, just to check.

Dean was watching at him. His head was tilted slightly, and there was a small line between his eyebrows, not quite a frown, but a mark of concentration. Interest. It made Jerry feel braver, and he plunged on:

“People want I should be crazy all the time, you know? I used to do that. Kids liked it when I put lampshades on my head or tried to grab the girls, you know? But then I went to a party once and acted normal. Nice, you know?” He paused, took a moment to collect himself; he hoped Dean didn’t notice. “Nobody invited me after that.” He tempered this last with a small chuckle.

Dean had watched him throughout and now said, slowly, “It’s your choice. Come or not. You get to pick.”

“I wanna come,” he said. The Idiot needed desperately to speak then, and he cried: “It sure will be fun, Mr Martin, you’n me togeddah both!”

Dean chuckled, arms crossed, eyes sparkling. “ _Togeddah both_? What kind of English is this?”

“Mine,” Jerry said simply, with a modest shrug. He turned fully to Dean and sat cross-legged on the mattress. “Sonny said you box each other sometimes.”

“Yeah, sometimes.” Dean lit a cigarette, and offered one from the pack to Jerry; he had to suppress the violent urge to ask Dean for the one in his mouth again. “Only when we’re hurtin’ for money.”

“He said I oughta come, maybe.” Jerry hoped he didn’t sound like he really did not want to come, please and thank you.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “He did, did he? Well, kid, I don’t uh…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”

Jerry laughed. “Blood and guts and fisticuffs? That’s Jerry Lewis all over!” And then: “You don’t… really get hurt, though, do you?”

“Oh. No. Just… just a little sparring.”

“That’s all right,” Jerry said. “But you’re right, I think. I’m too sensitive.” He lisped, and Dean chuckled.

“Why’s it so dark in here?” Dean asked, and went over to open the curtains.

“Oh, you’re right!” Jerry got on his knees. “What schmuck did that? It’s so wonderful out!”

“A beautiful day,” Dean agreed. “Look, I can see a dog eating out of a trash can.” He sighed. “The wonders of nature, all on display.”

Jerry fell back on the mattress, giggling. _God, how can he make me laugh so much? He’s hardly doing anything!_ And then: _I gotta break him up, I just gotta see what he looks like when he really, really laughs._ But he couldn’t think how to do that – not just then, anyhow. Once he got himself under control, he saw Dean rummaging under the mattress. For one horrified moment, Jerry thought the flimsy-looking magazines being thrown on to the comforter were _not_ the sort of thing he wanted to be looking at with Dean – but then he found himself assaulted with the most intense delight he’d ever experienced, as he realised that Dean had been stashing Action Comics.

“Our secret,” Dean said, and winked at him. Jerry nodded, grinning, and for the next hour he and Dean lounged on the mattress, reading aloud to each other or in silence, alternately giggling and discussing with great seriousness the moral quandaries of the superheroes concealed within the pages. Jerry liked them well enough, but Dean _loved_ them. It was just about the cutest thing Jerry had ever seen, but he locked that tight inside his chest and vowed to take it to his grave. _Doesn’t hurt, though_ , he thought, sneaking peaks at Dean over the top of his comic book; it was all he could do to not stare outright at him. _Doesn’t hurt to think of him that way, does it?_ He didn’t think so. Jerry watched him read, the little dent between his eyebrows, how sometimes the pink tip of his tongue would peek out at the corner of his mouth. Dean read intently, absorbing every bit of information on a page before turning to the next. Jerry, meanwhile, found himself reading a speech bubble, and then drifting a little, having to look up and see what Dean was doing. Eventually, he gave up on Superman and focused solely on Dean. There was one perfect comma of black hair resting on his forehead. _He looks a little like him now_ , Jerry thought, but that was too much, and he forced himself to stare at the comic book again.

The ache was still deep, still painful, and there was a frenzied sort of heat around it now.

Dean’s sudden, bone-deep yawn made Jerry sit up straight and put the comic book he’d been pretending to read back on the mattress.

“I really oughta get some sleep.” Dean rubbed his eyes, his hair, and blinked at Jerry, a rueful little smile on his lips. “Sorry, kid. Gimme an hour, okay?”

“Oh, sure, Dean.” Jerry scrambled off the bed. He collected the comic books and put them in a neat pile on the nightstand. Then, with a nervous grin, “Want I should close the curtains?”

Dean chuckled. He’d toed off those ridiculous shoes and hung his tie off the iron headboard. Now he pulled back the comforter and started getting comfy. Jerry had to look away then, but he couldn’t think why. Couldn’t think why his hands were clammy and his chest was tight and his heart was hammering all of a sudden. Coughing, he drew the curtains and shuffled past the foot of the bed, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder before he shut the door.

Dean was asleep again, that fist tucked sweetly against his cheek.

Jerry hurried out, letting the door close as softly as his shaking hands allowed. He was cold and warm and wondered if he might be getting sick. He flicked off the heater and sat awkwardly perched on the edge of the couch, hands twisting in his lap. _Nothing_ , he told himself. _It’s nothing. Too much excitement. Sonny and Dean and the car and new needles and pie and cake and comic books._ He swallowed; it felt like a watermelon had taken up residence in his throat. _The candle, too._ His vision blurred. He reached into his pocket and stroked thoughtfully the little paper bag wrapped around his special purchase.

It helped. A little.

He sighed and pulled his legs up on to the couch, hugged them tight, buried his face in his knees. _I oughta go back_ , he thought with a distant, miserable twinge. _I oughta leave now. Go back to the hotel, light the candle and fall asleep. Forget about this. Forget about…_ About what? About how good it had felt reading comic books with Dean? About how fucking much it hurt his heart to think how much better everything would be if he’d had Dean, or his own Dean, his own version of Dean, some older fella, a brother, with him through it all?

Angrily, he swiped at his eyes. _Useless_ , he thought. _Pointless. Worthless. No-good. Hopeless._ The words beat and swirled around his head like vultures, picking at scraps of some forgotten carcass. He thought about the dog Dean saw eating from the trash. _Which am I?_ he thought, and choked down a sob.

“Stupid,” he muttered. _What’re you cryin’ for, you meshugener? One fella does something nice with you and you get like this?_ He told himself that was all it was. He tried to tell himself that. Tried to rationalise it that way. And this day, too; any other day, he thought, he would have been fine, no tears, no aches, no hammering heart. But no, it had to be today, didn’t it? Sonny had to invite him _today_. His new friend had to do something nice with him _today_.

He smiled then, secretly, against his knees. _My new friend._ It did wonders, that one thought, that beautiful thought. With a yawn, Jerry felt himself drifting, and had just enough time and awareness to lie down before falling asleep.

He dreamed in snatches, of secrets and superheroes. And songs, too. Songs? Why that? Not songs, exactly, but singing, anyhow. Someone singing, soft and sweet. Low, slow. He couldn’t hear the words, but the voice was honeyed, melodic. It crooned gently into Jerry’s head, his heart, loosening the ache to nearly nothing. He was aware – slowly, reluctantly – that he was waking up. _Lemme stay_ , he thought, and moaned a little. _Lemme stay awhile._ He imagined he could feel himself snuffling deeper into the ratty couch cushion. _Please let me…_ His dreams had been fretful, anxious for years, for as long as he could remember. Just once, just this once he wanted something nice like this, something sweet and warm and safe like this. Just someone singing, crooning. Like Crosby only better. Infinitely better. The way Jerry thought Dean might—

But it couldn’t be. He hadn’t heard him yet.

 _Oh_ , he thought. _I’m waking up. Shouldn’t it get quieter when I’m waking up? Shouldn’t that voice be going away from me now?_ It hurt him to think that. But his first instinct was right; the voice _was_ getting louder, if only a little, as if the person singing was being quiet, maybe absentmindedly crooning a few bars while going about his business. _Whoever he is, I’m glad_ , Jerry thought, and with a snuffling groan, he opened his eyes.

The dusky room swam sideways into view. A dim light was blinking on the ceiling, and a figure stood with its back to the couch, doing something at the sink. Water ran. Glasses clinked. The figure had rolled up its sleeves to work and… yes, Jerry was sure the figure was singing. _Can’t be_ , he thought, struggling to sit. _Can’t be Dean._ He must have made a noise – a yawn or a groan, or maybe his joints cracked – because the figure turned to look at him.

“Ah!” Dean grinned. “Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

Jerry snorted. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” Dean leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Her colouring not good either?”

Jerry moaned and covered his face. “Not when I just woke up, Dean,” he said. “No fair.”

“No fair, he says.” He cast his eyes to the heavens and said, in an exaggerated Italian accent, “Listen to this kid! Didn’t nobody ever tell you life ain’t fair?”

He huffed, but could feel the corners of his mouth twitching. 

“And what is this, _not when I just woke up_? Need I remind you of my own rude awaking courtesy of one Jerry Lewis?” He raised an eyebrow.

“That was an accident!”

“We only have your word for that.”

“It _was_!” Jerry had leapt to his feet. “You _know_ it was! I didn’t—”

“Sneakin’ around my room, tryna—”

“I _wasn’t_!” His voice cracked. “I wasn’t, Dean, honest.”

That last had left a ringing in the air. It died away, and they stood staring at each other. The neighbour through the kitchen wall thumped hard and shouted, muffled. Then everything was quiet. Dark. Jerry didn’t know the time, but it felt like he’d lost hours on the couch. He trembled, fists clenched. He felt heat behind his eyes and trapped thickly in his nose. _He’s teasin’_ , Jerry thought. _Just teasin’ you, don’t get upset now!_ Dean’s eyebrows had gone up, and his mouth hung open. _You yelled at him for nothin’! God, please don’t be mad._

Dean let out a breath. He held his right arm with his left hand, frowning at Jerry. “All right,” he said at last. “All right, kid, I know.”

Jerry blinked furiously and nodded. He thought about the two of them, sprawled on the bed reading comic books, like two schoolboys in a treehouse, or a secret den, sun streaming in, sharing their favourite parts, the best lines, swapping issues and comparing theories. He wondered briefly (and it was such an upsetting thought that he had to shove it away before he burst into tears) if he had dreamed that. Easily, he thought; how could Dean Martin want to share that with _him_?

He looked at Dean. It felt like there was a string between them, or a long elastic band, and suddenly he’d pulled it too fast, too far, and it was ready to snap. If he said the wrong thing now, Jerry thought Dean would never want to see him again. Something told him he’d never say so. But Jerry would know.

Slowly, Jerry said, “This was a nicer way to wake up, I think.”

Dean puffed air through his nostrils. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” He nodded. “What were you singing?”

“Oh, nothin’ special.” He lit a cigarette, came over to the couch and switched on the boxy heater. It clicked and whirred and resumed blowing warm air into the room.

“Can you sing it again?”

Dean’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Oh, I just…” Jerry tried to smile at him. The elastic band cut into his chest. “It was nice, that’s all. I didn’t hear all of it, and I thought—”

“Tell ya what, kid, I’m at the Glass Hat in a couple weeks, book a table.” He looked away. His face was twisted.

“Okay,” Jerry said and meant it. “Sure, Dean, I’ll book one.”

Dean sighed. He checked his watch. “Where the fuck—”

The door rattled, and in walked Sonny. “Boy, do I have a story for you.”

“We don’t want it,” Dean and Jerry said in unison. They looked at each other. The elastic band relaxed, and Dean’s easy smile slid into place.

“Fine. No taste.” He tutted. “Anyway, no time! We all ready to go?”

“Well, Sonny, I—”

A hum of conversation was growing, growing, nearing the front door.

“Sonny?”

“What?” He looked totally innocent. “I said we’d all be meeting here.”

“Sounds like you got the whole city out in the hall. What is this?”

“Aw, c’mon, Dino, you’re no fun! Kid, tell him he’s no fun.”

“Dean,” said Jerry. “Sonny says you’re no fun, but I still like you.” 

“This is worse, somehow,” Dean said.

“Oh, it hoits me.”

Sonny checked his watch and jumped from foot to foot. “Five minutes, _ehi_ , Dino?”

Dean said something in Italian that Jerry felt pretty certain was incredibly rude. Then he said, “Five minutes – and don’t keep ’em out in the hall like that, we’ll have the whole building complaining.” He crushed his cigarette in an ashtray and made for the bedroom. On the way past, he caught Jerry’s elbow and pulled him into the room. The door closed, Dean leaned his head against it. Voices, laughter filled the small apartment. Jerry saw his friend’s back heave.

“Dean?”

“I’m all right,” he said. “Fuckin’ Sonny.” He turned to Jerry. “Always goes overboard.” Then, after what Jerry thought looked a little like hesitation, he said, “Too many people in there.”

“Oh, right.” He nodded. There was a word for this, a big long smart word that Jerry couldn’t think of. But he got the idea.

“Five minutes,” Dean said, and went into the bathroom.

“Five minutes,” Jerry whispered to the empty room. He looked around, holding his elbows in his hands, then shifting his weight between feet, then trying casually to sit on the bed. He couldn’t relax here. There was light coming in through the gap in the curtains, and he went over to fix it. The second his hands touched the fabric, a soft tap-tapping hit the glass. He pulled the curtains open and saw two raindrops trickling down the pane. Then three. Then tap-tapping again, more and more and more, and a huge hissing whoosh of air from above. Through the wall, Sonny’s friends _ooh_ ing and _aah_ ing, one of them cursing. _But they’ll be indoors_ , Jerry thought. _We’ll_ , he amended, but that didn’t sound right anymore.

He leaned his forehead on the cold glass. He breathed hard and misted it, drew pictures in the condensation. Then he wiped a clear patch with the sleeve of his jacket and watched raindrops bounce like bullets off fire escapes. It was horrible weather, really, but looking at it through rapidly misting glass, warm and cosy indoors, it was a little exciting.

And through the misted glass Jerry saw a red light, blinking, then strong, then going out. _Expired._ His vision blurred; he swiped a hand across his eyes. _Oh no you don’t, Joseph Levitch. Don’t go upsetting yourself now. Not when he’s coming back in just a minute._ His eyes, his nose, his whole face felt hot and thick.

The rain drumming on the windowpane sounded like a sewing machine.

“All right, kid?”

Jerry turned. Dean stood on the other side of the bed, dressed in his camel hair coat, a blue jacket and maroon tie. He’d put something in his hair; it shone a little now. Jerry thought he looked very handsome.

“Sure, Dean,” he said, wiping his face quickly and offering what he hoped was a steady smile.

Dean frowned. “What happened?”

“Oh, nothing!” He went to him, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Nothing happened, Dean.”

“What, are you sad?”

“Oh! Sad? No, just crying, that’s all.” He laughed, pulled it back in his throat so it squeaked. Then, in that Idiot voice, “I forgot my umbrella, Dean. Can I use your hand?” He made a grab for it, but Dean was quicker. He folded his arms now and looked at Jerry closely.

“Aw c’mon, kid, it can’t be all that bad.”

Jerry started to say yes, to say _You’re right, Dean, of course you are! Just some meshugge kid upsetting himself, don’t you worry about ol’ Jerry Lewis, he’ll be just peachy._ But Dean was digging out his handkerchief, and with a lovely, sweetly exasperated care, he took gentle hold of Jerry’s chin and dried his cheeks.

Well, that did it. Oy, but it was the gentlest touch that set him off. What’s that about, do you suppose? He wished Dean could have made light of it, told him to stop – but kindly, nicely, with that easy smile Jerry liked so well – put an arm around him and taken him into the hall. Jerry wished he were pressed up against Dean’s side, beaming up at him. Instead, he was standing in front of a fella who really must be regretting asking this kid into his life, now that the kid was crying in his bedroom.

Jerry buried his face in both hands and sobbed.

He retched sobs. His shoulders heaved. The dark behind his eyes pulsed with fuzzy grey. He felt tears spilling between his fingers, snot and spit pooling in his palms. He was hot and sticky and sweaty and tired and he wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted somebody to hug him but he was alone. He was all alone, and breaking into tiny little pieces with no one there to collect them up and put him back together again. The ache had grown horrifically fast; it sat heavy in his chest, dug in with hot claws, spitting and biting, and spreading out out out to the tips of his fingers, to every hair on his head. And beyond all that was the whoosh and hiss of the rain, the sharp thudding taps on the window, and people talking, talking, and going away from him, getting quieter, going away, and a door closing, and then something touching him, touching his wrists and gently pulling him back into the world.

Dean was looking at him. He said something about Sonny, about the others, about going on ahead. Jerry hitched breaths and made weird noises in his throat. He wept, tried to nod, but it ended up lopsided and wrong.

“All right.” Dean muttered some things in Italian then, shaking his head. He took off his coat, ran a hand through his hair and looked back at Jerry. He seemed to be thinking about something pretty hard, if the way his handsome face twisted meant anything. Then, with a sigh, he came over to Jerry, touching his elbow. “All right, kid, c’mere.” He sat with Jerry on the edge of the bed, helped him out of his coat. “Too hot now,” he said, and then started in with the handkerchief again.

Jerry was shaking his head, apologising over and over, or trying to, tears making his voice thick.

“ _Ehi_ , _ehi_.” Dean put an arm around him and squeezed lightly. “ _Shhhh_ , kid, what is this, _sorry_?”

“Well—” It choked him, that one word. He hitched another sob. Dean tutted affectionately and tucked his handkerchief into Jerry’s fist. Jerry watched his huge fingers, felt their calloused tips, and wondered, _marvelled_ , at how gentle they were, how kind. Dean’s hand on his chin had come back to him; he pictured another hand, older and wrinkled, stroking his cheek. He shook his head, wiped his face on the handkerchief. _Dean’s_ , he thought. _This is Dean’s nice clean white one and here you are ruining it._ That made him cry harder.

Dean patted his back and sighed. “Here I am, tryna be nice, and the kid cries on me.” Through tears, Jerry saw Dean shoot a sly glance at him before he put his free hand to his head and declared, “Oy vey, what am I gonna do with him?”

Jerry uttered a thick, wet laugh. “No fair.” He sniffed and rubbed his face, still crying.

“No?” Dean had tilted his head to meet Jerry’s eyes, and now a slow smile curled his lips. “Why no fair?”

Jerry huffed a little. “I don’t know any Itralian.”

“Ah, I see.” He nodded thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “Well, I guess you’ll have to learn some. For next time.” He nudged Jerry’s shoulder. “ _Ehi_?”

Jerry nodded. He bit down hard on his lip and wiped his face again. Dean’s hand was gone, and he wanted it back. More than anything he wanted his new friend to be touching him again, to put that arm around him again, to hold gently his face and wipe his tears again. _Stop it_ , he thought. _Stop it, Joey. You met him three times and already you’re acting like this?_ And then, colder, the ache swelling: _Who says he wants to be your friend after this?_

He tried to say _Dean_ , but he was sobbing again.

“Aw, kid.” Dean’s smile evaporated and he ran a hand over his hair. Then he got up and went into the main room. He came back with a glass of water, took the handkerchief away, and wrapped Jerry’s hands around the cool, wet glass. “Here, kid, drink.”

Jerry blinked at him, desperately trying to get his breathing under control.

“All those tears, don’t wanna get dehydrated.”

He choked a little laugh and saw Dean’s smile come back. _Oh_ , he thought. _Oh, but I want him always to be looking at me like that._

Jerry drank deeply, pausing to huff air and mist the glass, and drained it. Dean took the glass away and put it on the nightstand. Jerry wiped his mouth and realised he had stopped crying.

“How’d you do that?”

“Hm? Oh.” He chuckled. “Figured you couldn’t do two things at once.” Dean sat down next to him again and put his hand back between Jerry’s shoulder blades. “A little better now?”

Jerry nodded. Better for the water, sure, and even better for that light touch on his back. But he thought that could be a secret for now. _Another secret_ , he thought. He locked it away quick, along with the sweet knot of concentration on Dean’s brow when he’d been reading Superman’s latest exploits.

“Good.” Dean let out a breath and raked fingers through his hair. “That’s… that’s good.” He took his hand from Jerry's back and stood. Jerry almost reached for him, had to shove his hands under his thighs, just to make sure they wouldn’t betray him.

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” His eyes were darting around the room, and he had a hand in his hair again. He’d mussed it now, but the tips still glistened with whatever he’d put in it earlier. “Move over, kid.”

Jerry shuffled back and crawled to kneel on one side of the bed, so Dean could lie on the other with his back against the headboard. He frowned, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips, and reached beneath himself. “Oh.” He pulled out Jerry’s coat. “Hope I didn’t squash the needles.”

Jerry giggled, and then felt a shard of ice in his chest. “You didn’t… break anything?”

Dean looked bemused and held his stomach. “Whadaya tryna say?”

“Oh, no, I…” Jerry swallowed. “I had somethin’ else in there. I just…”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Thought it didn’t feel like a tin,” he said, and fished out the little paper bag. It was crumpled, but Jerry could tell the cylindrical shape inside was intact.

“What’d you buy?” Dean asked, unfolding the bag and reaching in with one of his huge paws. Jerry’s mouth had gone dry; all he could do was watch his friend turn the candle over in his hands, frowning.

“Oh, that’s…” His vision blurred. _Not again_ , he thought. _It’s just a candle, don’t get all verklempt over that._ But it wasn't just a candle, was it? If it had been, if Jerry had bought a plain old candle on a whim because he'd had nothing better to do today, he wouldn't be feeling like somebody was inflating a balloon behind his eyes now. Not _just_ a candle.

“Kid?” He tapped his arm. “Am I losin’ you again?”

Jerry forced a short laugh. “No, I’m all right. It’s just… That’s just…” Suddenly, Jerry wanted to tell him everything. Not just about the candle, but the whole story, every story. Everything. It was too much all at once, bubbling up and nudging past the ache in his chest. If he let it, it would overflow and overwhelm them both. He swayed with it, this undercurrent. _Too much_ , he thought, and then tipped forward, half-fell on to Dean, hugging his neck. Dean uttered an _oof_ of surprise, from the weight of him. _But I’m so little. I’m so tiny, so small here. He could put me in his pocket. He could hide me under the mattress with his comic books. He could put me in a matchbox and keep me there._ Not the weight of him, then, but the _fact_ of him. The nerve of him, doing this, touching him.

He felt a tentative hand on his back.

“Kid?”

Jerry buried his face in Dean’s neck. He felt soft and solid and safe, and he smelled rich and warm, familiar, even though Jerry had never done this before, had never dreamed he would. He cried a little more and said he was sorry. 

“It’s all right,” Dean whispered. His other hand came to Jerry’s side and rubbed a firm rhythm up and down his ribs. “It’s all right.” And then: “Aw, Jer.”

 _Jer._ He pushed his face further into Dean’s neck. _Jer._ But it was only his name, missing a few letters. Just his name. So why did it send a shudder through him? Why did it make him want to cry harder? Why did it make him never want to let go? This man, this Adonis, who had made fun of a skinny kid with egg salad on his tie, was now hugging him, comforting him, calling him _Jer_.

He wanted to say things then. Jerry wanted to say nice things to Dean, things he’d never said before. He wanted to open the lock on that growing stash of secrets and lay them out, one by one, for his approval. He could do it, too. Despite that gnawing doubt in the back of his mind, something told him he could do it and Dean wouldn’t mind. Dean would understand. Dean would be kind, and maybe he’d even go on hugging him as long as he needed it. Jerry wanted Dean to know _everything_ , right now, right this second, wanted Dean to know him better than anybody else in the world. _You'll scare him off_ , he thought. _Too much, too fast'll scare him off. One thing. Just say one thing, one true thing_.

So he told him about Grandma Sarah.

When it was done, Jerry felt shaky and tired, but he’d nearly stopped crying, and that was a good thing. God, that was a wonderful thing. The ache was still there, but lower down and looser. He had been hugging Dean for so long he wasn’t quite sure how to let go – or if even he wanted to – but then Dean’s hands were gently pushing him away, one leaving him, the other coming to rest on his arm. He tilted his head, and with his thumb brushed a tear from Jerry’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

Jerry's breath caught. Something in Dean's eyes, in the way his voice was low and almost dark, something that Jerry could somehow, instinctively understand, told him all the things Dean was sorry for; not just that she died, but the rest of it too. Everything. He didn’t know what to say. He gestured vaguely with his hands and tried, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, that’s all right.” Then he laughed. “But I think my neck’ll smell like oranges for a week.”

Jerry smiled ruefully. “Sorry, Dean.”

“Aw, don’t worry, I’m just teasin’.” Then, so quick Jerry half-convinced himself he had imagined it, Dean tweaked the end of his nose. It was barely a pinch, really, just a bush of finger and thumb. Jerry made a short, huffing sound of surprise, and giggled a little. He meant to say something, but Dean cut him off: “Okay now?”

Jerry nodded. Feeling very small and very shy, he said, “Thank you.”

“Ah, don’t mention it.” Something in the way he shifted his shoulders, the way he looked around as though someone else was in the room – something about that told Jerry that Dean meant it. Maybe he ought to have felt a little sad about that, but it sent a thrill down his spine. _A secret_ , he thought crazily. _It can be another secret._ He nodded, smiling.

“Matter of fact,” Dean went on, “I oughta be thankin’ _you_.”

“Huh?” Jerry blinked at him.

“Between you and me, I didn’t wanna go out tonight.” He leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed. With a sigh, he said, “Better stayin’ in. ’Specially when it’s cold and raining.”

Jerry nodded emphatically. His fingernails dug anxious dents into his knees. “Better with someone else, too?” he asked.

“Oh, surely,” Dean said. Then he picked up the candle from the bedspread. “Wanna light it now?”

Jerry had to take a moment to force the tears back into his head. “Sure, Dean,” he said, very small and very shy. Dean got up and put it on the nightstand. Then he tossed his lighter to Jerry. Trembling very slightly, Jerry went to him, flicked the silver lighter open and thumbed the wheel. It sparked and died. Frowning, he tried again. And again. And at last the flame came to life. He bit his lip and held the lighter close to the candle. His hand shook. Focusing all of his strength on that part of his body, he tilted the flame closer and closer to the wick.

It wouldn’t catch. He was shaking too much. _God_ , he thought. _Please, God._

Dean tutted that affectionate tut again and held Jerry’s wrist. He muttered something in Italian; Jerry watched his face, that small easy smile. Then he looked back at Dean's hand, at those bumpy knuckles. He noted the pinkie finger, jagged. An old break, maybe. It hurt his heart a little, and he looked away. Together, they lit the candle and stood looking at the flickering flame. The ache in Jerry’s chest was smaller now, and warmer, and he thought if Dean put an arm around him it might go away altogether. But his friend didn’t touch him again. _Better that way, maybe_ , Jerry thought. _Better he doesn’t._

Then, softly, Dean's voice: "What was her name?"

Jerry swallowed. "Sarah—" It caught; he cleared it. "Sarah Brodsky."

"Sarah Brodsky," whispered Dean, and Jerry watched his eyes close, watched him bow his head and loosely clasp his hands low down in front of him. Jerry copied.

After a minute, he said quietly, “Here, Dean,” and held out the lighter.

“Keep it.”

“Oh, but Dean, it’s yours!”

Dean chuckled. “No, it’s not.”

Jerry’s eyes bugged out. “Wha? Then whose is it?”

“Well, Jerome, let’s just say Sonny might be hurting for a smoke right about now.”

Jerry went from giggling at the way Dean said his name to gasping, scandalised. He smacked Dean – very, very lightly – on the arm. “Mr Martin! I expected better of you.”

“There’s your first mistake.”

“But, Dean, you’re the grown-up! You oughta set a better example for me.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You know what? Gimme the lighter back.” He made a grab for it, and Jerry cried out, laughing, twisting away.

“But you said I could have it!” He leapt on to the bed. Two huge arms circled his waist and lifted him, kicking and screaming, down to the floor.

“Such a noise this kid makes.” Dean tutted. “Now, give.” Keeping hold with one arm, he reached for Jerry’s hand, still curled around the lighter. His fingers were loose. In fact, Jerry felt like his whole body had lost any real strength. Blood rushed in his ears. He couldn’t help noticing again just how big Dean’s hand was next to his own, and God, his arm felt like it could go twice round his waist, easy.

 _If he squeezed me just a little, I think maybe I’d snap in two._ And then: _Maybe it’d be worth it._

Dean let him go, and Jerry stepped away, more quickly that he’d meant to, and turned back to look at him, hoping nothing showed on his face. _What nothing? There’s nothing to show, nothing_ bad _anyhow. Nothing._

Jerry watched him light a cigarette with his newly-rescued lighter. He flicked it closed with a neat metallic click, and tucked it into his pocket. Then he looked at Jerry. It was as if he’d only just noticed he was standing there, staring.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“Kid, what is it?” Exasperation flickered at the edges of those words, and Jerry couldn't stand it.

“Oh. Oh, n-nothing, Dean, I’m fine.” He offered a smile he knew looked anything but.

Dean frowned. Then, so brief and so small and so totally suppressed Jerry thought he might have imagined it, alarm flitted across his face. “I hurt ya?”

“No!” Jerry was horrified, and raised his hands as though that would prove he was unharmed. “No, Dean, you didn’t hurt me. Just… You shocked me, that’s all. I didn’t know you were gonna do that. But I’m all right!” he added quickly, a little shaken by how intensely Dean was looking at him now. “Honest, Dean.” Then in that Idiot voice: “Wanna check for bruises?” He tugged his shirt out of his pants and hiked it up to his armpits.

“No, Jer, that’s—” But he was laughing. Dean was laughing. He stopped short of reaching for Jerry and threw back his head, helpless. Jerry felt like he was glowing, like he was floating a foot off the floor. He had on his undershirt, but his gag had had the desired effect; Dean had collapsed on to the bed, not just chuckling or giggling or snorting, but really laughing, big gorgeous whoops, and there were tears spilling down his cheeks. Tears! _I did that_ , he thought. _Me!_ Jerry rushed over to him, letting the Idiot take over completely:

“Hey, Dean! Dean! Whadaya laughin’ for? Ain’t ya still worried ya hoit me a little?” He pointed to the undershirt. “I’m a little pale, maybe, but—”

Dean pushed him – but gently, weakly, consumed by his laughter. Jerry got to his knees and bounced the mattress, gleeful and stupid. He wanted to hug him and kiss him and leap off the bed to throw open the window and scream at the world that he’d made Dean Martin laugh. He’d made Dino Paul Crocetti laugh! He wanted everybody to know and nobody to know. He wanted to do everything and more, all at once, and one at a time. He didn’t know _what_ he wanted. So he kept on laughing and jumping and screeching nonsense, while Dean clutched his stomach and begged for mercy.

Someone thumped the wall, yelled some threat or insult.

“Shut up, you’re drunk!” Jerry hollered, and Dean grabbed him, pulled him down and shoved a pillow over his face. He sputtered through cotton and, when Dean released him, mimed spitting feathers.

“Christ, kid,” he said, some of the adult coming through now but still, Jerry thought, fighting back laughter; teeth snagged his top lip, and his eyes sparkled. He fell back on the mattress, panting. Jerry lay down next to him, giggles bubbling but thinning out, calming down. The room was quiet now, save their tapering laughter and heavy breathing, and the fuzzy insistence of the rain. Jerry could feel Dean's hand nearby, and somehow knew that if he made it into a joke, Dean would let him hold it. He remembered that huge paw next to his hand, how it could have easily swallowed it up. Swallowed _him_ up. Though his fingers itched, he fought the urge to reach for him. Instead, he glanced at Dean's profile. His mouth was still curled into an easy grin. Being so close, Jerry thought he could count Dean's eyelashes, make a wish on each one.

Dean looked at him. "What?"

Jerry smiled and shook his head. He thought about that little boy in that dark house. He thought about being good and staying put and never opening his mouth. He thought about aching for years. Going through all of that alone. He looked at Dean, who had muttered something kindly in Italian and gone back to staring at the ceiling, and thought that maybe waiting so long for someone to go through it with him had been worth it after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in honour of my one-year anniversary of being a Martin and Lewis fan. From five feverish hours online early one morning to a quite frankly obscene collection of memorabilia one year later, these boys have consumed my life, and I honestly have no idea if that's a good thing.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this exploration of baby Jer <3


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